


I’m So Tired

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Heavy - Freeform, No mclennon here sorry, Other, drug overdose, implied suicide, john lennon is bisexual, paul is straight, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 16:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17811647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: August 28, 1967- in London, England, Paul McCartney visits John Lennon at his estate in Kenwood after the death of Brian Epstein.





	I’m So Tired

**Author's Note:**

> Just another reminder if you didn’t read my tags- this has mention of suicide and drug overdose/drinking, if any of these things trigger you please don’t read this fic! There are plenty of other fluffy content on both my page and the Beatles tags :)  
> Anyhow, if you are reading, I hope you enjoy!

John had lit a cigarette, a sinking feeling in his pit of a stomach. His ankle rested atop his leg, and he bounced the other. The cigarette smoke swirled around his head and settled at the ceiling.  
“Do you think it was an accident, John?”  
Paul’s voice came across as clear, although it slightly wavered in the air. He had been sitting in silence many moments as well, shifting his arse and clenching his hands in his lap. He didn’t seem to want to smoke- but God, John needed it.  
They had been enjoying one of the oldest cities in Wales- Bangor- and were inducted to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Transcendental Meditation. It had been a beautiful experience, the dark room and just being with the man; everything about him was soothing, his Christ-like appearance conveying a message of peace that stirred greatly within each of their souls. Flowers erupted from each corner of the room, natives from India that the Maharishi had brought with him, and traditional Welsh flowers- rock roses and columbines, violets and forget-me-nots. Even more dreamlike, in the void of peace, sweet incense burned and crafted a trail of smoke that drew them together.  
But now, this, the opposite of peace. Brian Epstein, their beloved Eppy, was gone. Found by his maids, dead in his bed on Chapel Street.  
“No,” John said, surprised at how gravelled his voice was. He took a drag on his cigarette, hands trembling.  
“This is about Spain, isn’t it?” Paul said quietly, moving closer to John on the couch. His hand covered John’s. They both had rough hands, though Paul’s looked so soft, you would’ve never guessed. But they played instruments, constantly flicking the pads of their fingers against sharp strings; they couldn’t afford soft fingers, despite affording everything else.  
It was a dangerous question, usually met by a dangerous, non-verbal response from John. But this was different- this was Paul’s question, which John was usually glad to answer.  
“I don’t know, Paul.”  
“It wasn’t your fault.” Paul said, and he almost seemed to be reassuring himself, “He took them every night, you know that. He was just drinking that night, that was the difference.”  
John finally looked at Paul, previously unable to do so. Paul offered him a wobbly smile, giving and gentle.  
“It was to make you jealous, y’know,” John mumbled under his breath.  
“Make who jealous?”  
Yesterday, the bloody reporters had shown up nearly as soon as the news broke, and John had offered to go and talk to the press. Paul was sulking then still, stretching the skin on his face and shaking his head and repeating over and over again something John couldn’t hear under his breath. Paul eventually decided to leave, before the interview.  
“Do you have any words for your friend Brian Epstein?”  
“Do you know what happened?”  
“Was it because he was an alleged homosexual? Do you have any comments on his sexuality and what it may have done to cause his death?”  
The reporters were draining and claustrophobic, a stark difference to what had happened earlier. Then it was darkness, peaceful darkness and nothing else. Now- cameras flashing, microphones jutted into his face and stacked atop each other like sardines. John had often wanted to spit upon reporters- especially the Americans- and tell them they were once those nasty children who buggered their mums to no end.  
“I don’t know what to say. We've only just heard, and it's hard to think of things to say. But he was just... He was a warm fellow, you know, and it's terrible.” John said, his hands clenched at his sides. George stood to the right of him, Ringo at his left. He felt nauseated, and like he was going to fall over onto the reporter.  
“What are your plans now?”  
“We haven’t made any,” Which was an almost-lie, considering that Paul had already begun the trip back to London, “I mean, we’ve only just heard,”  
“Yes, you know, it's as much news to us as it is to everybody else,” Ringo agreed, the bitterness in his tone lesser than that of John’s.  
“John- Where would you be today without Mr. Epstein?”  
The question had thrown him completely off guard, and it was shown so on his expression. A million things coursed through his head. Brian had saved him, as nearly as much as Paul had. They had produced a number of albums under him, and he had skyrocketed them to the top of the charts, along with making bucketfuls of cash along the way.  
“I don't know.” John said dumbly.  
“Are you driving down to London tonight?”  
“Yes, someone’s taking us down,” John took a glance towards George and Ringo, “Yeah,”  
“You heard the news this afternoon, I believe, and Paul's already gone down?” The reporter seemed almost accusatory, like the other three didn’t love Eppy nearly as much as Paul did. The media always had a time with John, and to him this seemed like just another thing to lump onto his bad side, alongside the tasteless Jesus comment.  
“Yes,”  
“You've no idea what your plans are for tomorrow?”  
John poked his tongue into his cheek, trying to hide his frustration. He shrugged, “No, no. We'll just go and find out, you know. And-,”  
"We just have to play everything by ear.” George said, tucking his thumbs into his pants.  
“I understand that Mr. Epstein was to be initiated here tomorrow?”  
“Yes.” John answered limply. Dammit! Why was he giving such wanker answers?  
“When was he coming up?”  
“Tomorrow, just Monday. That’s all we knew,” George shrugged. George was always so good at keeping his emotions level, coming off as unattached and cold.  
“Had you told him very much about the spiritual regeneration movement?”  
“Well, as much as we'd learned about spiritualism and various things of that nature, then we tried to pass on to him. And he was equally as interested as we are, as everybody should be,” George said, coughing into his fist. Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes, “He wanted to know about life as much as we do.”  
John breathed in, and let his shoulders drop heavily. He looked away from George, his eyes fixed on the wrinkled fabric of the reporter’s coat as he continued to process what had happened.  
“Had you spoken to him since your-, since you became interested this weekend?”  
Ringo and John both answered no, but George had spoken with him on Wednesday.  
“He was in great spirits,” George said.  
“And when did he tell you that he'd like to be initiated?”  
George seemed to become flustered; he was never used to talking this much. The attention was on John and Paul- George was the quiet Beatle! At least, that’s what all the old magazines used to say, the toppermost of the poppermost Beatlemania days, “Well, when we arrived here on Friday we got a telephone call later that day to say that Brian would follow us up, and be here Monday.”  
The reporter asked if they planned on returning before the end of the conference; George said no. Maharishi was leaving on Thursday, and it was utterly pointless as they had so much to do when they got back to London.  
The filming of Magical Mystery Tour was still on, along with so many other things… they couldn’t just stop and abandon all that, John knew.  
“Could I ask you what advice he offered you?”  
John faced the camera, knowing it was focused on him, and put on his bravest John Lennon, the Beatle, face, “He told us not to get overwhelmed by grief. And whatever thoughts we have of Brian to keep them happy, because any thoughts we have of him will travel to him wherever he is.”  
And it was true.  
“Had he ever met Mr. Epstein?”  
“No, but he was looking forward to meeting him,” The words were rushed out of John’s mouth, slightly acidic in nature.  
“Have you a tribute that you would like to pay to Mr. Epstein?”  
God, he had wanted to say so much.  
“Well, you know, we don't know what to say,” John admitted, and considered cutting off his next words. However, he decided to let them slip, no matter how un-Liverpudlian they were, they were true, “We loved him and he was one of us.”  
WE. Couldn’t John just say he loved Eppy? He knew he was the only one bollocks enough.  
“You can’t pay tribute in words,” George said quietly, shaking his head slightly as he stared at his feet.  
“What are your plans now?”  
“To return to London, and do whatever we can,” George said, glancing at John and Ringo. Something in the way he looked at John, almost anger. Do you not have anything else to say? The look asked.  
“Did the Maharishi give you any words of comfort?”  
It seemed like a repeat of a previous question, but John answered it anyway, “Meditation gives you confidence enough to withstand something like this, even the short amount we've had.”  
If anything stuck with John through that gruesome interview, it was his quiet friend’s words of wisdom, something that John began to believe, too- “There's no real such thing as death anyway. I mean, it's death on a physical level, but life goes on everywhere... and you just keep going, really. The thing about the comfort is to know that he's OK.”  
“I wish you had been there, Paul,” John voiced at last, pushing his glasses over the bump in his nose, “You always know what to say- I was a mess,”  
“I don’t. I was hurt, too, John- that’s why I left so fast, I couldn’t take ‘em,” Paul said, shook his head as a chill ran down his spine, “I saw your interview, and you did fine. You’re distressed, John, and that’s okay. I know that-,”  
“You would probably do better if I bloody keeled over, Paul!” John said, flustered.  
Paul’s face fell, then he scrunched his brows, “John, don’t make this about yourself, you know that won’t happen,”  
John took a drag on his cigarette, and broke into a dry laugh with it pinched betwixt his teeth. It was short-lived, however, being only a burst of nervous energy and met by Paul’s glare. He had changed from the colorful sweater vest of the Magical Mystery Tour’s filming and into something that more closely resembled 1964, when Paul still only shook his moptop and occasionally sang; a white collared shirt with two buttons undone at the top, and cuffed blue slacks. He wore no shoes- he had kicked them off at his arrival at Kenwood.  
“Was it my fault, Paul?”  
“I don’t think it was anyone’s fault, I told ye that, Johnny,” Paul reclined on the couch, drawing his hand away from that of John’s and rested his arms at the base of his stomach. He closed his eyes and let out a withering sigh, “It was an accident… it was only an accident,”  
God, did he know about Hamburg? What about after that?  
“It doesn’t matter, John,” Paul shook his head.  
He hadn’t realized he had spoken the thoughts aloud, and he swallowed and tapped off his cigarette, “George said he was in a better place now,”  
“Yes, I heard,”  
“But what if he isn’t? Is heaven even-,” If there was no heaven? Where would Brian be then?  
“God dammit, John! Comfort yourself, won’t ye? Stop worrying over it!” Paul said, finally snapping. The green of his eyes seemed to pop out of him, vibrant and flashing. Angry.  
“I just- I shouldn’t have picked on him so much!”  
“No, you shouldn’t have, but you can’t change that now,” Paul said, his chest rising and falling, “You're not a bad person in his eyes, John, he didn’t think so then and he doesn’t think that now,”  
John stabbed his cigarette into the tray and leaned forward, putting his arms on his knees. He gnawed on a fingernail, eyes wavering on the posters he had pasted to the walls- crosses and cutouts from Playboy magazine, Rockwell paintings of old and their good friends, the Rolling Stones. Jagger looked at him menacingly from Aftermath, his face purple and black. Mickey Mouse and a Smiling Buddha mocked him with their joyful expressions.  
“God, I can’t-,” John pulled off his glasses and shoved his fist in his eye, trying to shove the moisture back in, “I loved him, Paul. As a friend, I did. I shouldn’t have…,”  
“Hey,” Paul said softly, and he wrapped an arm around John, “‘s’alright, y’know. You did everything you could’ve done, yeah? You’re good in the end, Johnny, you’ve changed.”  
“Did I?” John turned almond eyes onto Paul, letting his cheeks become wet.  
Paul nodded, “You did. I miss Brian as much as you do,”  
Oh, boy. John was so tired.


End file.
